Archive of Our Own

The base at night has a pulse. Low. Humming. Not really quiet — just the sound of everything settling. Durasteel contracts in the cold. Water pipes groan somewhere above. A med droid beeps on its rounds, distant, indifferent. Finn lies on his bunk with one arm behind his head and stares at the ceiling.

The nightmare stopped three weeks ago. The white halls. The screaming. Something else crawled into its place. Softer. Hotter. The kind of dream that leaves you gasping awake with your heart slamming and the sheets twisted around your legs. An ache low in your belly you can't name.

He doesn't have words for it. The ache just settles into his bones like a fever. Breaks. Returns.

He remembers everything about the dreams. That's the secret he carries into each morning and buries under the routines of the day — the clatter of the mess hall, the weight of a blaster in his hand, the way Poe claps him on the shoulder and grins and says something easy.

In the dreams there's a body against his. A mouth. A hand. A voice saying his name like it's something precious, not a serial number. The voice is always the same. The hands are always the same. The mouth is the only mouth he wants to think about. He thinks about it constantly. Helplessly. Like pressing a bruise.

Just go talk to him, he tells himself for the twentieth time.

The words feel absurd. What's he supposed to say? I've been having wet dreams about you and I don't understand my own body, please help.

He presses the heel of his palm against his sternum. Tries to push the feeling down. It doesn't work. It never works.

But he gets up anyway. Pulls on his boots. No jacket. The corridor is cold, but his skin is already too warm, already too aware of itself — the fabric of his sleep pants, the way his heartbeat picks up from the simple act of standing.

Poe's quarters are two turns and a straight shot. Finn knocks before he can talk himself out of it.

The door slides open. And there he is.

Poe Dameron.

Half-asleep. Hair sticking up in six directions. A gray shirt gone soft at the collar. Loose trousers sitting low on his hips. One foot bare. The other wearing a sock with a hole in the big toe.

The light behind him catches the hollow of his throat, the little mole just above his collarbone. Finn has stared at that mole during briefings so many times he's memorised its exact placement.

Poe's face runs through a whole journey in about two seconds. Confusion. Recognition. Then a slow smile that makes Finn's stomach flip, that makes him understand suddenly why people write songs about this kind of stupid, hopeful, terrifying feeling.

"Finn." His voice is rough from sleep. Lower than usual. Gravelly in a way that makes Finn's mouth go dry. "It's late. You okay?"

"I don't know."

Then, because that sounds stupid: "I mean. I'm not hurt. Nothing's on fire."

Poe leans against the doorframe. The light catches the side of his face — the curve of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing his cheek, the little scar near his eyebrow. Finn has noticed that scar a hundred times. Wanted to touch it every single time.

Poe's eyes are half-lidded, still heavy with sleep, but they're focused entirely on Finn. That's the thing about Poe. When he looks at you, you feel like the only person in the room. In the base. In the galaxy.

"You want to come in?" Poe asks.

"Yeah."

Poe steps back.

Finn walks past him into the room. It smells like Poe — engine grease and something clean, maybe soap, maybe just him, the particular chemistry of his skin.

The room is small. Bunk in the corner, sheets tangled. A flight jacket draped over a chair. A half-empty cup of caf on the floor next to a stack of datapads. A pair of worn gloves on the nightstand, the leather softened by use.

It's the room of someone who lives out of a bag, always a breath away from climbing into a cockpit and leaving the ground behind. Finn has never been in a room that feels more like its owner.

He sits on the edge of the bunk. The mattress dips under his weight. He puts his hands on his knees and realizes they're trembling — a fine, almost invisible shake he can't stop no matter how hard he presses his palms flat. He tucks his hands under his thighs to hide it.

Poe sits next to him. Not close. Close enough. Finn can feel the heat coming off his body, can smell whatever soap he used last — something cheap and military-issue, but on Poe it smells different.

It smells like home.  

Which is a ridiculous thought, because Finn doesn't have a home. Has never had a home. Only ever had barracks and training yards and the hollow echo of a dozen identical bunks in a room that reeked of blaster oil and fear.

And yet.

"So," Poe says. "What's going on?"

 Finn stares at the opposite wall. His face is burning.

"This is embarrassing."

"Okay."

"I mean really embarrassing."

"Okay," Poe says again. Patient. Unhurried. "You don't have to tell me. But you came all the way here, so maybe you want to."

Finn takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out. The air in the room feels thick. Syrupy.

 He can feel his pulse in his throat, his wrists, the soft place behind his knees.

"I've been having dreams," he says. "Not the bad kind. The other kind."

Poe goes very still beside him.

“The other kind."

"Yeah." Finn's voice drops to barely a whisper. He can't look at Poe. He looks at his own hands instead. The knuckles. The small scar across his thumb from a training accident years ago.

"The kind where I wake up and my body is... I don't know. Ready. And I don't know what to do about it. I tried to figure it out myself but I just felt stupid. Like I was doing something wrong even though I was alone and no one could see me."

Poe is quiet for a moment. The quiet stretches. Becomes a space Finn can fill or leave empty. Poe is good at that. Giving people room.

"You're not stupid," Poe says eventually.

"You're just new to this. There's a difference."

"I know that." Finn finally looks at him.

Poe's face is soft. Curious. Not mocking. His eyes are dark in the low light, and there's something in them Finn can't quite read. Something careful. Something held back.

"That's why I came to you."

"Because I'm an expert on... what, exactly?"

Finn feels the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

"Because you're the least judgmental person I know."

"That's a low bar."

"Also because you've definitely done this before."

"Done what before?"

"Don't make me say it." 

Poe grins. "I really want you to say it."

Finn buries his face in his hands. His ears are hot. "Oh my god."

"Come on. Use your words."

Finn drops his hands. Looks at the ceiling. The paint is cracked in one corner. He focuses on that crack, on the way it branches like a map of somewhere he's never been. 

"Fine," he says. "I want you to teach me how to touch myself. Happy?"

Poe bursts out laughing. Not mean — surprised, delighted, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere genuine.

"How do you even know what that means? You were a stormtrooper."

Finn crosses his arms. The defensiveness comes up before he can stop it — the old reflex, the one that says protect yourself, don't let them see the cracks.

"Just because I was a stormtrooper doesn't mean I was a child. People talked. Someone had a holobook hidden in their footlocker. I may have looked at it."

Poe is still smiling, but something in his face has shifted. The laughter has settled into something softer.

"A holobook."

"For research purposes."

"Research."

"Shut up."

Poe doesn't shut up. But he doesn't keep teasing either. He just looks at Finn for a long moment. Then his hand comes out and rests on Finn's knee. Warm. Heavy. The weight of it is an anchor.

"There's something else I should probably tell you," Finn says. The words come out before he's decided to say them.

"About why I don't know any of this. Why my body feels like a stranger sometimes."

Poe's thumb moves in a small circle on Finn's knee.

"Tell me."

"The troopers. They put stuff in our water. Chemicals. To keep us from... wanting things. From getting distracted. It made everything flat. No dreams. No urges. Nothing."

Finn's voice is steady, but his hands have started shaking again.

"I guess it's wearing off now. My body is waking up. All of it. And I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to want something without feeling like I'm going to be punished for it."

Poe's hand stops moving. His face goes pale.

"Jesus, Finn," he says quietly. "That's — that's horrible."

The word lands wrong. Finn feels his jaw tighten.

"It was efficient," he says. The old programming, surfacing without permission.

 "It kept us focused. There were no complications. No attachments. That was the point."

"Finn."

"I'm not saying it was good. I'm saying it was what it was."

He can hear his own voice getting sharper. Harder. The wall building itself brick by brick.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me. I'm not a victim. I'm just late to everything. That's all."

Poe doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull his hand away. He just sits there. Solid. Present. Lets Finn's words settle into the space between them.

"I'm not feeling sorry for you," Poe says. "I'm feeling angry. On your behalf. There's a difference."

Finn looks at him. At the set of his jaw, the furrow between his brows. Poe is angry. Not at Finn — for Finn.

The distinction is so foreign Finn doesn't know what to do with it. No one has ever been angry for him before.

No one has ever looked at the things that were done to him and said that was wrong without also saying but you deserved it somehow.

"Oh," Finn says. That's all. Just oh.

Poe's hand squeezes his knee. "You're allowed to be angry too, you know. You're allowed to feel however you feel about it."

"I don't know how I feel," Finn admits."I don't know how to feel anything without second-guessing it."

"That's what we're here for," Poe says. "That's what this is for. Learning."

Finn lets out a breath. The wall in his chest hasn’t crumbled — it's much too old for that, too well-built — but something shifts. A crack. Maybe a little light getting in.

 "So," Finn says, because he doesn't know what else to say, because he needs to move past the rawness of the moment before it swallows him. "Are you going to teach me or what?"

Poe shifts on the bunk, turning to face him. Their knees touch. Poe doesn't move his.

Finn notices everything: the way Poe's shirt collar sits crooked, revealing more of that collarbone.

The way the fabric pulls across his chest.

The way his breathing has changed — deeper, slower, more deliberate. How he looks like he’s getting ready for disappointment.

"I can show you," Poe says. "But I need you to hear something first."

"Okay." Poe reaches out and puts his other hand on Finn's other knee. Both hands now. Warm. Grounding.

"I'm a man," Poe says. "And you're asking me to teach you about your body. About what feels good." His thumbs press small circles into the inside of Finn's thighs.

"Are you sure that's what you want? Because if you'd rather I just explain it — if you'd rather figure it out on your own — that's fine too. I just need you to be sure. About me. About this."

Finn stares at him. At the hands on his knees. At the serious set of his mouth. At the way his eyes are searching Finn's face for an answer. Patient. Open. Ready to hear no. And something in Finn cracks open. Just a little. Just enough.

"Poe," he says. His voice comes out wrecked. He didn't know it could sound like that. "You’re my best friend. I don't care that you're a man. I don't care about any of it. I just — please. I need you to show me. I can't do it alone."

Poe's eyes go dark. His hands tighten on Finn's knees. "Yeah," Poe says. Soft.

"Okay. I've got you."

What comes next is slow.

Unhurried.

Poe moves like he has all night, like there's nowhere else in the galaxy he needs to be.

The gravity of that — the sheer, improbable fact of being the centre of someone's attention — makes Finn's chest ache.

 He starts with Finn's hands. Turns them over in his own. Traces the lines of Finn's palms with his fingertips — the lifelines and heartlines and all those other lines that are supposed to mean something but probably don't.

He presses a kiss to each knuckle. One after another. Soft as a prayer. Finn watches, mesmerised, as Poe touches him like he's something fragile. Something precious. Something worth taking time over.

"Your hands have done so much," Poe murmurs. "Fired weapons. Pulled triggers. Saved my life." He kisses the centre of Finn's palm.

"They deserve to know something soft."

Finn's throat closes up. He can't speak. His eyes feel hot, prickling at the corners, and he blinks hard to keep whatever is happening there from spilling over.

Poe lets go of his hands and moves his own to Finn's knees again. Both of them. His thumbs stroke small circles on the inside of Finn's thighs, through the thin fabric of his sleep pants. Finn feels those circles like brands. Like he'll be able to find them tomorrow — the ghost of Poe's hands pressed into his skin.

"I'm going to touch you," Poe says.

"Everywhere. Not just the places you're thinking about. Everywhere. Because your whole body is new, Finn. And I want you to feel all of it."

Finn nods. His breath is already going shallow. His chest rises and falls too fast.

"Tell me yes," Poe says.

"Yes."

Poe's hands slide up.

Over Finn's knees. Over his thighs.

His palms are warm, slightly rough from years of flying. Finn can feel every millimeter of movement — the drag of calluses, the pressure of fingertips, the heat that seems to radiate from Poe's skin into his own.

When Poe reaches the crease where his thighs meet his hips, he stops. Presses his thumbs in.

The pressure is just short of pain. Finn gasps.

His hips jerk involuntarily.

"That's a place people forget," Poe says. "But it can be good."

He keeps going.

Over Finn's hips, the jut of bone there.

Over his stomach, the soft skin below his navel.

Over his ribs — each one a separate country. Each touch is deliberate. Like Poe is mapping him for the first time, learning the terrain.

Finn's shirt bunches up as Poe's hands travel higher. Then Poe is pulling it off — slow, asking with his eyes first — and Finn lifts his arms and lets him.

Then Finn is bare from the waist up, and Poe sits back and looks at him. Finn has never been looked at like that. Like he's a landscape. Like someone wants to memorise him.

Poe's gaze travels over Finn's chest, his shoulders, the scars left over from another life — the small one near his collarbone from shrapnel, the long one across his ribs from a training accident, the cluster of marks on his left shoulder he doesn't remember getting and doesn't want to.

Poe's expression doesn't change. No pity. No shock. Just quiet wonder. Quiet attention.

"You're beautiful," Poe says.

"Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"I know. That's why I'm telling you to shut up."

Poe grins and leans down.

His mouth finds Finn's collarbone. Then his chest. Then his stomach.

Each kiss is soft, almost absent-minded, like Poe is thinking about something else entirely. But his hands keep moving. His breath is warm.

Finn's fingers find their way into Poe's hair without permission, without thought, like they've been waiting to be there all along. "Poe," he breathes.

"Mm?"

"Keep going."

Poe looks up at him. His lips are parted. His eyes are dark. The stubble on his jaw catches the low light. He smiles, a slow, dangerous thing.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

His fingers hook into the waistband of Finn's pants. Pull them down.

Finn lifts his hips to help — embarrassed and eager all at once — and the cool air hits his skin and he shivers.

Then Poe's hand wraps around him, and Finn thinks, Oh.

Oh, this is what flying feels like. The thought is his own. Private. Too large for words.

He holds it close as his whole body arches off the bed and a sound comes out of him — not a word, just a noise. Raw. Broken. Nothing like the soldier he was trained to be.

Poe's other hand comes up to his chest, pressing him back down.

"Easy," Poe murmurs. "Easy. I've got you."

"I know," Finn gasps. "I know. It's just — no one has ever — I didn't know it would feel like this."

"Like what?"

Finn can't answer. He doesn't have the words. He has the feeling — the rising tide, the coil tightening somewhere deep and private — but the words are beyond him. He shakes his head, helpless.

Poe seems to understand. His hand moves. Slow. Steady. A rhythm that is almost too much and not nearly enough all at once.

Finn's hips start moving with it, without his permission, a helpless push and pull that makes the bunk creak beneath them.

His hands grab at the sheets. Grab at Poe's arm. Grab at anything within reach.

"That's it," Poe says. His voice is rough, scraped raw. "That's it. You're doing so good."

Finn can't answer. He can barely breathe. The feeling is building. Coiling. Tightening. His eyes squeeze shut. His mouth falls open. He's close to something — he doesn't know what, but he knows he wants it more than he's wanted anything.

"Look at me," Poe says. "Finn. Look at me."

Finn forces his eyes open. Poe is right there. Inches away. Face flushed. Eyes dark.

Watching.

And when Finn finally lets go — when the wave crashes over him and his spine arches and his mouth opens on a sound that might be a word or might be nothing at all — he says Poe's name. 

They come down slowly. Poe's hand stills, a sticky mess. His lips brush Finn's cheek. Finn's whole body is shaking — not from cold, from the sheer size of what just happened, from the way his nerves are still firing, still singing.

His eyes are wet. He hadn't noticed himself crying.

"Hey," Poe says softly. "Hey. You okay?"

Finn nods against the pillow. He can't speak yet. His voice feels like it's somewhere else. In some other room. Attached to some other person.

They lie there for a while. Finn's breathing slows. His heart stops trying to escape his chest.

He becomes aware of things again — the thin mattress beneath him, the smell of Poe's pillow, the weight of Poe's body beside him, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

And something else.

Poe is still hard. Finn can feel it pressed against his hip, through the fabric of Poe's trousers. An insistent heat. A question that hasn't been asked. Poe hasn't said anything. 

His hand now tracing lazy shapes on Finn's shoulder.

Finn turns his head. Looks at Poe's face. At the flush still high on his cheekbones. At the way his jaw is tight, the muscle jumping beneath the skin. At the way his eyes are half-closed, like he's holding himself back from something.

"You didn't —" Finn starts.

"It's fine," Poe says quickly. "Really. This was about you."

"But you're still..."

"I know. It's fine."

Finn props himself up on one elbow. Looks down at Poe. At the line of his throat, the jump of his pulse.

At the way his shirt has ridden up to show a strip of skin above his waistband. The dark trail of hair below his navel.

The sharp lines of his hip bones.

"I want to," Finn says. Poe's eyes go wide.

"You don't have to."

"No, I mean — I want to. I want to try."

"Finn." Poe's voice is strained. "You've never done anything like this before. You just figured out how to let someone touch you. You don't have to —"

"I know I don't have to." Finn reaches out. Touches Poe's jaw. Feels the stubble under his fingers. Rough. Real.

"That's not why I'm doing it."

"Then why?" Finn thinks about it. About the dreams. About the way Poe's voice sounds when he says Finn's name.

About the fact that he spent his whole life being told what to do, and now, for the first time, he wants something because he wants it. Not because someone ordered him to.

 "Because I want to know what you taste like," Finn says. "Because you gave me something tonight, and I want to give something back."

Poe stares at him. His chest is rising and falling too fast. His hand comes up and covers Finn's, pressing it harder against his jaw.

"You're sure?" Poe asks.

"I'm sure." Poe closes his eyes. Lets out a long breath. When he opens them again, something in his face has shifted. The patience is still there, but underneath it is something hungrier. Something he's been holding back. Maybe for a long time.

"Okay," Poe says. "Okay. But you tell me if you want to stop. Any time. Even in the middle. Even if I'm close. You say the word and we stop. Promise me."

"I promise."

Finn moves. Rolls onto his side. His fingers find the button of Poe's trousers. He fumbles with it — his hands are still shaking — and Poe has to help him, covering Finn's hands with his own, guiding them through the motion with a gentleness that makes Finn's chest hurt.

"That's it," Poe murmurs. "Slow."

Finn pulls down the zipper. The sound is loud in the quiet room. He pushes the fabric down, just enough, and then he stops. Looks at what he's uncovered.

The trail of dark hair below Poe's navel, leading downward. The sharp cut of his hip bones. The heat of him. The weight of him.

Everything Finn has only seen in dreams and holobooks and the secret corners of his own imagination. He reaches out. Touches.

Poe hisses through his teeth — a sharp intake of breath that makes Finn's stomach clench.

"Sorry," Finn whispers.

"Don't be. Just — give me a second." Poe's head falls back against the pillow. His hand comes up to cover his eyes.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"I think I have some idea."

Finn's hand moves. Tentative at first. Then more sure.

He watches Poe's face the whole time — the way his mouth falls open, the way his breath hitches, the way his hips push up into Finn's touch without his permission. A reflex he can't control.

It's intoxicating.

Finn wants more. He wants all of it.

He leans down. Presses his mouth to Poe's stomach. Just above where his hand is working. The skin is warm. Salt-slick with sweat.

Poe makes a sound — a real sound, low and desperate, nothing like the confident pilot everyone else sees. His fingers thread into Finn's hair.

"Finn — you really don't have to —"

"I want to," Finn says again. His lips brush Poe's skin as he speaks. He can feel the muscles of Poe's stomach jumping beneath his mouth.

He moves lower. Poe's hand tightens in his hair. 

"Please," Poe breathes. "Please, Finn."

And Finn shows him what he learned in his dreams.

The language here becomes something else. Something softer. The room falls away.

There is only the warmth of Poe's skin.

The salt taste on Finn's tongue.

The way Poe's thighs fall open like an invitation.

Finn's mouth finds a rhythm — not knowing, not practiced, but willing. Eager.

Poe's hand stays in his hair, not directing, just there. A tether to the world.

The sounds Poe makes are broken.

Wordless.

Nothing like the man who stands in front of a squadron and gives orders. These are the sounds of someone coming undone.

Finn looks up once. Through his lashes. Sees Poe watching him. His face is wrecked.

Flushed. Eyes bright and wet. Lips parted around sounds he can't hold back.

He is beautiful like this. He is beautiful always.

"I'm close," Poe gasps. "Finn, I'm —"

Finn doesn't stop. Doesn't want to stop. He wants this.

He wants Poe.

He wants to be the reason Poe falls apart. The reason his hands shake.

The reason he says Finn's name like it's the only word he has left.

Poe's whole body goes tight. His hand in Finn's hair clenches, then relaxes, then clenches again.

His hips lift off the bed. And Finn, looking up at him, says the thing he's been holding in his chest for weeks. The thing he didn't know how to say until this exact moment.

"I dream of this. Of you. Every night."

Poe's eyes squeeze shut. His mouth opens. And he lets go, saying Finn's name like a prayer.

Afterward, they lie tangled together. Finn's head on Poe's chest. Poe's arm around his shoulders. The sheets are a disaster. Neither of them cares.

"Okay," Poe says eventually. His voice is shot. Barely a whisper. "Okay. That was —"

"Yeah," Finn says.

"I mean, for someone who's never done anything before —"

"Shut up."

"No, I'm saying. That was incredible. You're incredible."

Finn lifts his head and glares at him. Poe is grinning. The smug, insufferable grin that Finn fell in love with approximately thirty seconds after they met.

Not that he would ever say those words out loud. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. But the feeling is there. A warm weight in his chest. He doesn't try to push it away.

"I will leave," Finn says.

"No you won't."

"You're right. I won't." Finn lets his head fall back onto Poe's chest. Feels the heartbeat under his ear. Steady now. Slow. Real.

"Was it okay? What I said. At the end."

Poe's hand comes up to stroke Finn's hair. Gentle. Lazy. His fingers trace the shape of Finn's skull, the curve of his ear, the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"It was more than okay," Poe says. "I've been dreaming about you too. For months. I just didn't know how to tell you."

"You could have just said something."

"Could I have?" Poe's voice is soft. Almost sad. "You were still learning how to use a fork, Finn. Still figuring out what it meant to want breakfast instead of waiting for it to be given to you. I wasn't going to add... this. Not until you were ready."

Finn is quiet for a moment. He thinks about the drugged water. The years of flatness. Of nothingness.

A body that was a tool and nothing more. He thinks about how far he's come — from a white hallway and a screaming man to this small room, this narrow bunk, this person who looks at him like he matters.

"I think I'm ready now," Finn says.

"Yeah," Poe says. "I think you are."

Poe presses a kiss to the top of his head. They lie there, quiet, as the base hums around them. Somewhere far away, a door slides shut. Somewhere else, someone laughs. The universe keeps turning.

"Poe?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I stay here tonight?"

Poe's arm tightens around him. "You can stay here every night."

Finn closes his eyes. Sleep comes easily, and he has no dreams.